Page 8 of View With Your Heart

Scene: The Baseball Field

[Gavin]

The following day, I’m in Traverse City most of the afternoon, viewing films, attending panels, and sitting on a few myself. It’s been exciting to be on the other side of the camera and do something I feel has been worth the time, effort, and money, despite what my agent thinks of the project.

My ex-girlfriend doesn’t support it.

Her father hates it.

Zeke Steinmann owns Steinmann Studios, and his daughter works for Imperial Sports Management. She picked me up, overrunning my first agent with promises of more sponsorships. At twenty-five, I was a baseball player on the edge of becoming someone. She hooked me up with a few modeling gigs and endorsements. A watch company. A men’s clothing store. A sports shoe. I had a face, Zoey thought, and that face attracted her as well as sealed deals. She even got me a cameo role in a movie about baseball.

Me? I’m not an actor.

Gavie, anybody can act. People do it all the time by pretending to be someone other than who they are.

We became a couple. It was a farce as well.

As the day draws to a close, I have late-night dinner plans with a couple of indie film directors and decide I need a shower. Again, I curse myself for not renting a place closer to Traverse City as I make the long trek up the highway back to Elk Lake City. As I drive north, my thoughts wander, and I turn off on a road I recognize. It’s an inner drive circling Elk Lake, and I follow the path until I find what I’m looking for. As the road winds around the lake, the land to my left dips toward the water, and built into the rise are stadium seats behind a backdrop. A baseball diamond angles toward the lake. To my surprise, a woman and a boy are on the field.

My rental car tires crunch over the gravel as I pull into the small lot beside the field and park. The spaces force vehicles to face away from the field, mainly for protection against foul balls. As I exit the convertible, more memories wash over me of pickup games and little league playoffs here. The field doesn’t look well maintained, and along with all the other changes to the area, I imagine this piece of my history has a new, improved counterpart somewhere near town. Mum is always telling me about changes to the area, but I hate to admit I only half listen.

As I approach the old wooden stadium seats, I hear the groan of the boy at home plate.

“Mom, this isn’t working,” he drones, and I smile to myself. I watch as I near the backdrop while his mother tries to pitch to him, and it doesn’t come close enough. A bucket of balls rests at the mother’s feet. A ball cap covers her hair and is pulled low to shield her eyes. She tips her head back to see her son better but drops the new ball in her hand when she notices me. I hold up a hand as a friendly wave.

“Hi.”

She doesn’t respond. Not a wave. Not a word. Instead, the boy turns to me and shakes his head.

“She’s terrible.” His voice drops as if he intends to whisper, but he’s not quiet in the least.

“I can hear you,” she calls out to him. He holds a hand to the side of his mouth as if he intends to speak again but shakes his head instead. “I can also see that.”

I chuckle to myself, shaking my own head at their antics. The kid rolls his eyes before turning back to his mother, giving her a thumb’s up.

“Okay, Mom. Try to get it to me this time.” He taps home plate with the tip of the bat, hoists it to his shoulder, fixes his stance, and then calls out, “Ready.”

His mom takes aim, twists like she’s a professional, but I can immediately tell from her position she has no talent. To my surprise, she releases. Hard and fast, the ball comes in the general direction of home plate, but it’s been released on an angle, and it’s heading straight toward me. Thank goodness for the metal fencing above the backstop as the ball collides with the crisscross design and drops.

“Mom,” the boy groans, both surprised at how far the ball went but also disappointed at the off base direction.

“I think we should be finished,” she mutters, but her voice carries. By the set of the kid’s shoulders, I can tell he isn’t done, but he’s not getting what he needs from his mother.

“I could pitch to you.”

His head perks up, and he glances from his mom to me and back. I’m not trying to be creepy, but the kid wants to play, and for nostalgia's sake, I want to step out on that mount. When I was younger, I wanted to be a pitcher. Every kid wants the limelight position, and I was a lefty. Left-handed pitchers are hard to come by. Eventually, I was shifted to first base, another novelty as a lefty. The position stuck.

“Uhm . . .” His mom mutters as I round the backdrop and freeze.

“Britton?” I question.

Her son looks from me to her. Her eyes shift from him to me.

“Gavin.” She chokes on my name, and her son flinches in my periphery, but I can’t take my eyes off her. In a pair of short shorts and a T-shirt, with the ball cap on her head, I’m thrown back in time to a day when I took her to a different ball field and tried to teach her how to pitch. She stole my hat and pulled it low like she’s wearing this one tonight. We were covering the basics of baseball, and I eventually used her body to explain rounding the bases. We didn’t complete her pitching instructions but did plenty of other things that night. First (kissing). Second (skin on skin above the belt). Third (touching below the belt). Home run didn’t happen because I was a goner long before we could have gotten to that action.

Awkwardly, I try to rid the memory as a part of me comes up to bat while I’m still struggling with the fact she’s standing here, on this mound, of all places.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,” I state.